


Our Shangri-La

by imachar



Series: The Weight of a Man [10]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where McCoy learns a little about surfing, and Pike persuades Boyce into sex on the beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Shangri-La

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: skyblue_reverie

He isn’t a misanthrope goddammit, he doesn’t care what Jim Kirk says, he doesn’t hate people - and he thinks, he hopes, the kid was joking, or at least drunk, when he said it late last night, but McCoy had still yelled a couple of choice profanities and slammed the door on his way out - he’s just an introvert, he needs regular bouts of solitude if he’s going to stay sane.

One of the many advantages of having a Ph.D. in psychology is that Leonard McCoy is very well aware of all of his many character flaws, what causes them, what can be done about them and which of them can be at least temporarily mitigated by high-quality alcohol and a little seclusion.

And after a week of helping to train mobile trauma teams at Starfleet’s West Coast Field Training Center, McCoy’s mood has gone from grumpy bastard to raging asshole by day seven as he’s been forced to interact constantly with cadets, trainee nurses, interns, the ever-irrepressible Jim Kirk, and his new boss, the amiable, somewhat gruff and terrifyingly competent Captain Phillip Boyce, MD, Starfleet’s new Chief of Trauma.

He needs to get away.

That’s how he finds himself sprawled in the sheltered hollow of a sand dune at the northern end of Pendleton Beach with a flask of Woodford Reserve resting on his chest and not another sentient being in sight. He has two hours until he’s supposed to meet Jim for dinner and then catch the last shuttle of the weekend back up to the Academy. The command track cadets are staying on for the rest of the month, but McCoy is only down here for a week at Boyce’s suggestion, and given that Boyce is responsible for allowing _cadet_ McCoy to work four shifts a week at Starfleet Medical’s Trauma Center, earning him just enough over his cadet stipend to actually be able to send Joss his child support payments on time every month, he hadn’t really considered it a suggestion.

He stretches and eases himself a little more comfortably into the sagewort and sand verbena, propping his head up on a piece of driftwood so that he can take leisurely sips from the flask without risking spilling or choking. It’s then, as his gaze shifts from the haze and high clouds of a slightly troubled sky - there’s a tropical storm somewhere off the coast of Baja out beyond the reach of the weathernets - to the beach and high surf that’s breaking a hundred meters or so out to sea, that he realizes that he’s not alone. Well, he is; the other figure is a good 300 meters away and far too occupied to trespass on McCoy’s solitude, but he doesn’t quite have this stretch of coast entirely to himself.

Resting comfortably on a gently bobbing longboard, lying at full stretch, chin resting on his crossed hands, the surfer is apparently waiting out a couple of sluggishly undulating waves before something more impressive rolls in. There is something vaguely familiar about the lean, black-clad form, but he’s too far away for McCoy to really tell and he’s not motivated enough to dig out the distance viewer from his pack so he just sips the bourbon and settles in to watch.

One more wave rolls by and then another begins to build and the surfer paddles the board into position, just waiting for the right moment to catch it. And then between one heartbeat and the next he’s on his feet and McCoy is impressed. He doesn’t know much about surfing but he does know anatomy and kinesiology and knows exactly what kind of strength and control it takes to rise from prone to standing in a single graceful movement, and to do it on a moving board without so much as a waver to indicate that he is anything other than completely balanced.

The figure hangs for a moment just below the crest and then with one deep bend of his knees he’s cutting down the face of the wave in a long, graceful arc, using his trailing foot to adjust direction ever so slightly to maximize his run, nothing fancy, nothing showy, just an exquisite exercise in speed and poise and there is something so utterly carefree about it that McCoy actually stirs himself to sit up, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees and allows himself to focus his attention on the remarkable demonstration of elegant agility.

And then fuck if he isn't surfing _up_ the wave, popping the board out the top, not very high but while McCoy thinks he's seen plenty of kids pull that stunt with a short board, it takes real skill to do it with something more than a meter longer than you are. The figure rides the crest for a moment, the nose of the board tipped up out of the surf and then he’s over again, running down the steepest part of the face and swinging the board almost parallel to the direction of the foam. It's not a particularly impressive wave, maybe two meters from trough to crest, but the surfer squeezes every ounce of momentum out of it, using his trailing foot, his knees and the flex of his body to keep the board skimming the surface of the water, cutting fast down the face, running the board with a grace that is breathtaking to watch, balancing on the nose for just a moment - McCoy knows there’s a name for that particular trick, but can’t for the life of him remember what it is - and then walking back to the traction mat so that he can turn into the oncoming surf, ride up the face and pop the board out once more, spinning it 180 degrees to ride the crest for the last few meters to shore.

It's then as the surfer drops onto the board and rolls to stand in the waist deep water that McCoy finally gets a good enough look to recognize him and his heart stutters in his chest as he realizes that he's looking at Captain Christopher Pike, XO of the Academy's recruitment office and someone Jim Kirk has solemnly sworn wouldn't be able to relax if you hit him with a dose of horse tranquilizer. Yet again, it appears that Jim is talking out of his ass, because Pike looks about as relaxed as any man has a right to be as he spins the longboard back out to sea and pushes off hard into the surf, setting a strong stroke as he paddles back out to the line of breakers.

Still taking parsimonious nips from the flask, McCoy watches the performance repeated several more times until his concentration is broken by the sound of a dog, barking furiously and running long loops around a figure that has appeared from out of the dunes. He immediately recognizes this new intruder on the beach. If the long, somewhat lazy stride doesn’t give it away, then the mustache does; that and the shock of thick silver-gray hair. It’s Boyce, in jeans and a t-shirt, scuffing easily through the loose sand above the tideline, hands in his pockets, head cocked as he too watches Pike, pausing every so often to throw a stick for the exuberant black Labrador that reminds McCoy with a pang of the chocolate version he got for Jo Christmas past, and of the weeks of negotiation with Joss before she finally relented and let him get the damn dog.

Along most of this beach the surf just rolls in, the slope of the subsurface just enough to provide a good rolling swell, no more than a couple of meters high. But in one spot, for about 500 meters there's real breaking surf created by a sand bar that's accreted around some long-abandoned amphibious vehicles from the time when this was Camp Pendleton and the USMC used it as a training and mustering facility. Pike’s heading for this dumping surf now, ready to take on the challenge of the bigger waves, three to four meters of sheer blue-green that rise sharply from the rolling ocean surface to sweep in and then break without warning as the crest of the wave outruns the base. There’s no waiting for a good wave here; everything rises sharp and fast and it’s more a question of how quickly Pike can set himself up to take advantage of the wave before it passes under, or over, him.

He comes off the first of them with a speed that is, at least to McCoy’s inexperienced eye, terrifying, knees deeply bent as the board slices through the water. The wave is large enough to curl as it breaks and Pike rides the tube, spitting out the open end unscathed as the break closes down in a welter of thrashing white foam. He drops and spins the board back out to sea, repeats the exercise again and again with an exuberance that is a joy to watch, the fearless energy and exquisite skill making McCoy smile, even as he shifts a little and becomes aware that the whole thing is a little bit of a turn-on. Again, he knows himself well enough to know why, damn if he doesn’t like competent men – it’s one of the reasons that Jim is so damned attractive - despite his predilection for screwing up, he’s a certifiable fucking genius.

Still his natural pessimism warns that competence alone can’t beat the waves every time and that there’s disaster just around the corner. It comes with a wave that breaks sooner than Pike is expecting, the board flipping as it slides out from under him, smacking him across the hip as he disappears into the surf and fuck that looked like it hurt. There’s a breathless moment when even the dog goes quiet, waiting for Pike to reappear, and then the board pops up closely followed by the man who reels it in with the leash, shakes the water out of his hair and levers himself back up waving absently at Boyce who’s yelling and gesticulating wildly from the shore. McCoy can guess what that’s about, he’s done exactly the same thing with Jim when he’s been demonstrating some new and innovative way to land himself in the trauma center, judging by the frustrated gesture that ends Boyce’s rant apparently Pike listens about as well as Jim does.

Certainly, if Boyce is trying to persuade Pike to abandon the breakers and come ashore, he’s failed utterly. It’s another five minutes before he finally rides the board to shore for the last time and McCoy thinks that’s probably just long enough to make his point, in a faintly adolescent fashion, that _he_ gets to decide when he’s ready to come in. Because he’s clearly getting tired now and is just that little bit slower and less graceful, coming out of the water with ever such a slight hitch in his stride. Not that he gets any sympathy from Boyce. As he walks up onto the strand he’s greeted with a cuff across the back of the head, a gesture both irritated and affectionate and McCoy thinks these two have known each other a long time. From what he knows of Pike he can't imagine him taking that kind of rebuke from just anybody.

And then everything McCoy thinks he knows takes an abrupt sidestep as the two men pause for a moment on their walk up the beach and Pike slides an arm around Boyce's waist, turning to pull him into a kiss. It's long and loving and clearly not their first and even from this distance McCoy can feel the heat in it and as his short-circuiting brain is trying to process this new and very surprising piece of information about his boss, the part that handles self- preservation is telling him that maybe it's time to depart the scene. He knows Boyce has already seen him, so he makes no attempt to slope away, just stands, brushes off the sand and slides down the back face of the dune heading for the path through the salt marsh. He needs to get back to the mobile trauma outpost and the shuttle stop that’ll take him back to the command center, a good half an hour of time to contemplate what he’s just witnessed.

McCoy likes Boyce, and not just because he was the first person at Starfleet Medical to recognize his skills and put him to work so he could actually get back to healing people, the one thing that gives his life meaning in the absence of his darling girl. No, McCoy likes the taciturn, no-bullshit competence of the man, can appreciate the dry humor and biting sarcasm that sends the medical students and residents running for cover and can see that under it all there is a warmth and depth of compassion that are the mark of a truly remarkable physician. Still he's a stubborn, ferociously tempered tyrant at times and McCoy's seen Pike's temper flash more than once - one of the very special privileges of befriending Jim Kirk is suffering the occasional collateral damage from his more spectacular fuck-ups - and he wonders at the volatility of a relationship between these two very exceptional men, and then smirks to himself as he scuffs back along the track - the make-up sex must be fucking fantastic.

It's then, thinking about sex that he comes up short, remembers something Jim had said a few months ago and curses as he realizes the answer to the question of whether Jim already knew about this. He couldn't possibly know - because right after spring finals, when Pike had reamed Jim out for underachieving in his History of Military Strategy class and Jim had been muttering into his beer about hard-driving bastards who wouldn't know a good time if it slapped them in the face, he'd solemnly bet McCoy that Pike's mean streak was the function of not getting laid often enough. And McCoy had been just drunk enough to take the bet. And now:

"Goddammit - he was right."

It wasn’t that Pike wasn’t getting laid enough - he hasn't been getting laid at all. Boyce is the _new_ Chief of Trauma because he's just returned dirtside after a two year tour on the _USS Henry Blake_ , one of Starfleet's emergency response trauma ships. Tours of duty were only supposed to last a year but a combination of bad luck and worse timing, specifically the unexpected death of Boyce's replacement and a series of natural disasters on a couple of distant colony worlds kept him on station for a second year, and McCoy guesses he probably hasn't been home more than once over the entire tour.

Dammit, now he owes Jim dinner. Although, on reflection, he should probably be grateful that this was the way he’d found out. For the last few months Jim has been threatening to hack Pike’s personal files and if he’d won the bet that way McCoy wouldn’t be able to fall back on his old standby of plausible deniability when faced with another of Jim’s disciplinary board-worthy infractions. Oh well, nothing to do but own up to it; at worst it’ll cost him clams in white wine and a bottle of decent Chianti at The Golden Spike, and maybe coffee and a couple of cannoli at Café Puccini.

****

Back down on the shore the lab bounces enthusiastically around the two figures until Chris finally breaks away and holds out a hand to the dog,

"Hey Jericho, you don't mind if I do aerials, do you?"

"He doesn't have to fix your dumb ass when you break something - I swear Chris, one day you're going to fuck that knee beyond all repair and we're going to have to replace it. And you are _not_ going to like the physical therapy that goes with that kind of surgery.”

Chris is down on that bad knee, the longboard propped against his thigh as he rubs the dog's ears affectionately and he just gives Phil a look, the same one he's been using for years, the one that asks simultaneously _are you done?_ and _am I forgiven?_ and Phil just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"Idiot boy." There's only just slightly shy of a decade between them, but in some ways their personalities have always enhanced the age difference. Phil's gruff, slightly reserved reticence set against Chris' bright and reckless self-confidence.

Chris gets back to his feet, holds out a hand and Phil takes it twining their fingers together and squeezing slightly before he offers the olive branch.

“You looked good out there.”

“I’ve been out a lot this summer.”

Chris can see that Phil is searching hard for a rebuke in there somewhere, an unspoken _I had a lot of time on my hands when you weren’t around_ but he doesn’t find it, and he just smiles that little half smile, narrow upper lip quirking up a fraction under the thick silver-white mustache and nods up towards the dunes.

“D’you see you had an audience? Other than me I mean.”

“I saw. McCoy, right? How the hell did he get out here?”

“He must have walked over from the mobile trauma outpost. I think everyone else left on the noon shuttle.”

"Hmmm, well I think our little public demonstration of affection scared him away."

"Smart man. I know I wouldn't want to watch my boss making out."

"Your boss? As in Admiral Ní’hUallacháin, she of the criminally bad halitosis and the perpetual five o'clock shadow?"

That earns him another cuff and they're both laughing as they follow Jericho up the beach.

The only vehicle in the parking area behind the first bank of dunes is a battered utility truck that Chris has appropriated from the motor pool for the afternoon and as they approach it they separate, Chris leaning the longboard up against the side panel of the truck bed while Phil tethers Jericho to a fender in the shade and comes around the truck to fill the lab’s collapsible bowl with water. Chris sticks his head under the spigot of the truck’s water tank, rinsing the salt out of his hair then steps under to clean off the dry-skin. It’s an expensive piece of equipment, water-tight but breathable, insulated and hydrophobic and since this one is tailor-made for him, not something Chris wants to have to replace through lack of care.

He thumbs open the molecular fastening as Phil disappears again with water and snacks for the dog and then strips efficiently and pulls on his jeans – just his jeans. In less than two hours Phil will be on a shuttle back to San Francisco and Chris won’t follow him home until the end of the week and he really doesn’t want to wait five days before he gets laid again. So he hasn't bothered with buttoning the fly, or with underwear; and while there’s nothing overtly explicit about the look, there’s an implicit promise that he knows will send a shiver of raw need up Phil’s spine when he walks back around to the back of the truck. Sure enough, Phil takes one long, appreciative look and raises one of those thick iron gray eyebrows.

"I think we should get back to the command barracks.”

"Fuck no, not unless you want the entire camp to know what we're doing. The walls in that place are like paper." Chris pulls Phil close, backing him against the side of the truck. He knows Phil won't capitulate without serious persuasion, the whole idea of sex in any place where they could conceivably get caught is anathema to this innately reserved man; but Chris loves the challenge, and he presses closer in a slow, almost subtle rut, a leisurely undulation that is sweet torture on his own already fully hard cock, and makes Phil bite his lip and shudder.

"You don't seriously want to do this _here_ do you?"

"Any reason why not?"

"Other than the fact that it's a public beach?" Phil keeps it short, and Chris has a feeling he’d have a hard time articulating anything over two syllables as he runs his thumbnail up the now very obvious ridge in Phil’s jeans, generating a soft, "Oh fuck...you _are_ serious."

"It's hardly public; it's Starfleet property; you said yourself that McCoy was the last person at the mobile surgery outpost and I went to a lot of trouble to have Melega reset the gate code so no one else can use the beach road this afternoon.” Chris is palming Phil’s erection now, the heel of his hand keeping firm pressure on the thick length even as he leans in to whisper, low and seductive. “Come on Phil, I was planning to get fucked, if you felt like obliging me.”

That makes Phil pause, pulling back and narrowing his gaze to look intently at Chris, obviously trying to see if the phrasing is deliberate. Chris rarely offers to bottom, not that he can’t be persuaded into it very easily, usually with Phil’s mouth on his cock and a slick finger teasing across his prostate, then, _then_ he pretty much _begs_ for it, but not like this, cool and calculating and at least half dressed.

And it _is_ calculating; Chris knows exactly the vision he’s presenting right now – the tilt of his head and barely perceptible smirk accentuating the challenge written in every line of his body as he leans back against the side of the truck. Still slightly damp and tousled from his impromptu shower, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his unfastened jeans drawing the fly wide, his stance open and generous and utterly wanton, he sees the exact moment that Phil’s resolve crumbles. It thrills Chris, just a little, that he still has this kind of effect on Phil; they’ve been doing this intermittently for 25 years, regularly for the last 12 and every time he sees that sudden flush and the ever-so-slight contraction of blue as Phil’s pupils widen, Chris feels an answering thrum of desire - and if he feels just slightly guilty that he’s using a little of his tactical brilliance to out-maneuver his partner, well, the rewards will be entirely mutual.

“How can I say no to an offer like that?” Phil moves into Chris’ personal space, one hand curving around the nape of his neck, thumb brushing lightly against the soft hollow under his jaw and leans in to feint at a kiss, whispering instead “But not in the sand, sand and fucking do not go together. So you better have prepared for this.”

Chris just laughs, leans in the fraction of a centimeter that is separating them and steals the kiss himself, hot and wet and surprisingly obscene for all its brevity and then pulls himself easily up into the bed of the truck.

“When have I ever not been prepared?” And he rolls open a combat training ground mat that he's appropriated from central stores and then slides back down to the ground to stand in front of Phil, his grin wide and just a little self-satisfied.

Gripping the still open waistband of Chris’ jeans, the backs of his fingers brushing against sensitive skin and wiry curls, Phil pulls him close, says "Fucking boy-scout." And then he steps towards the truck, forcing Chris to step back until he’s backed against the side panel and Phil is pressed hard against him, all lean muscle and solid heat and he smells of everything they share; laundry ionizer and shower gel and the shaving cream they both use because they prefer wet shaves to the beard repressor; and everything they don't, the royal amber oil he uses on his mustache, the woody musk of his aftershave and the slight, ever present undercurrent of hospital and for a moment Chris just breathes it in - fuck he has missed this…so damned much.

There’s a slight desperation in the kiss when it finally comes, all slick wet heat and carnal hunger and they are fused together until they’re breathless and achingly hard and Chris is panting slightly as he draws back and then just grins and levers himself back onto the tail gate of the truck, scooting backwards onto the mat and shimmying out of his jeans as he goes. He leans back, propped up on his elbows and lets his knees fall open in an obvious and wanton invitation, still grinning as he watches Phil's breath catch in his chest. And then the grin softens to something much more intimate as Phil breathes softly. “Beautiful boy.”

And Chris knows they’re both thinking of the first time they ever did this when he had been a brash, blond boy of twenty-five who'd had to be persuaded, slightly drunk and a little stoned, into bottoming, and Phil had fucked him with care and skill and an intensity that had eventually left both of them sweat-soaked and exhausted on wrecked sheets.

Their momentary reverie is interrupted by a slightly impatient noise from Chris as he palms a lazy stroke up the flushed curve of his cock, and Phil laughs…

“Don’t you dare start without me.”

…and strips, all efficient grace as he pulls the t-shirt over his head and toes off his shoes at the same time and by the time his jeans and boxers hit the ground he’s levering himself onto the truck bed and Chris is slightly mesmerized by the play of long lean muscles under skin that’s still a little too pale from two years in the black.

There’s a brief silence as it sinks in that they are really about to do this and Chris slides a hand up Phil’s chest, relishing the silky texture of the layer of fine silver-gray hair that spreads from clavicles to the warm concave of his belly. Catching the hand, Phil holds Chris’ gaze for just a moment and then lays a kiss on the inside of his wrist before he stretches, leaning across and Chris takes the opportunity to lay a lazy flick of his tongue on first one and then the other already-taut nipple as they come within range of his mouth. Phil shudders, his cock twitching against Chris’ abdomen and then with a warning noise, sets Chris’ hand on the steel frame of the truck.

“And the other one.” Leaning up on one elbow to watch and Chris just grins and complies, long fingers curling around the bar, stretching and arching towards the man who’s now leaning over him.

“Now can you just do as you’re fucking told, for once?” Phil’s hand is in the middle of Chris’ chest, a warning for him not to move and they both know it’s a game. They’re almost exactly physically matched but Chris’ training and conditioning, and that little edge of youth, all mean that he could take Phil in a heartbeat and they both know it. But he would never dream of it. He manipulated Phil into this with an offer of surrender and surrender is what Phil will get, even though Chris knows, from the spark in those electric blue eyes, that Phil is going to make him pay, in the best possible way, for persuading him into having sex on a beach.

“Good boy.” A soft, appreciative whisper that makes Chris’ cock jump at the approval in the tone, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to think about what _that_ says about him. And then he’s not really in a position to think at all as Phil sinks a hot, hard kiss into the curve of his neck, right at that spot that makes him squirm and catch his breath. It's the textures of lips and tongue and teeth and _fuck_ that mustache feathering across his skin that draw an embarrassingly eager little whimper out of Chris, and he's desperate to touch, to curl his hands into the thick silver hair, to feel the flex and stretch of broad muscles under smooth skin. But he doesn't, he does exactly what he’s been told to do, he lets his head fall back, his eyes closed, and just clings to the steel truck frame letting himself float on the rising tide of his own arousal.

Chris is good; he’s very, very good - he squirms and arches and even whines occasionally, but he doesn’t let go, not even when Phil licks a hot wet stripe down his cock and then brushes the slick and twitching length with the soft feather of his mustache – it takes not a little skill to make that sensation feel good – the wrong angle and the hair would be bristle-stiff – but Phil’s been doing this for years and he knows exactly how to make Chris beg.

“Fuck, please...Phil…please, fuck me please…” It’s pretty remarkable that he’s still this coherent and Phil relents, with one last long swipe of his tongue and sits up, leaning over to reach into the duffel where he knows he’ll find the lube and then he’s stroking, scissoring, spreading him wide – those long surgeon’s fingers, knowing and practiced – a quick and efficient prep before he lifts Chris’s long legs over his hips and presses in exquisitely slowly. Chris wants to scream, wants to order Phil to stop fucking teasing him and just fuck him already, to use that voice that keeps 800 crew, or an entire Academy of cadets, doing his bidding without question – the voice that once, used just a little inappropriately - although he saved an entire fucking ship in the process - rendered Admiral Jessop speechless with anger and almost earned him a court-martial for conduct unbecoming. But he doesn’t, he pleads instead, with his body, with his eyes and with short, sharp panting breaths.

Chris is desperate for Phil to release him, but there is something exquisitely seductive about allowing himself to be this vulnerable, compliant, _obedient_ boy for just a while longer. He never ceases to be amazed that this exposure doesn’t terrify him like he thinks it should, but he’s still lucid enough to watch the play of emotion on Phil’s face as he hitches his hips, still fucking him with a slow easy stroke and it’s so utterly captivating to be owned like this. There’s almost no iris visible in the deep blue eyes, pupils blown with desire and Phil has that rapt, enthralled expression that makes Chris shiver with want. No one has ever been able to read him like Phil can, to know him like this, to take him apart, strip him down to a thing of raw need and base sensation and then know exactly when it’s about to be too much.

“Let go Chris, let go – you’ve been such a good boy – just let go.”

And in one powerful flex Chris is sitting up, driving himself down onto Phil’s thick length, watching with exhilaration as underneath him Phil bites his lip, and groans through the wave of intense pleasure that comes from being buried so deep in Chris’ tight, velvet heat.

“Oh yes.” Chris’ voice has a slight growl to it now, and his grin is back – Phil once called him the most assertive bottom he’d ever met and Chris knows, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that as much as Phil might enjoy the obedient boy, it’s the self-assured, smart-mouthed son of a bitch that he loves more than life itself. He reaches for one of the bars above their heads that form the open frame of the truck, wrapping both hands around it and using the extra leverage to ride Phil with a slow, rolling twist of his hips, and Phil leans back on his elbows and laughs.

“Fuck, I love it when you do all the work.”

“Yeah, it's the only way you can keep up with me, old man.” But Chris is just a little breathless himself, sweat starting to bead on his face and neck, curling the fine hair around his temples and gathering on his upper lip; sliding down his throat to catch in the supersternal notch and then disappear into the graying thatch across his chest. Now he starts to feel the burn in muscles already overtaxed from his hour in the ocean, the pain a _sweetsharp_ counterpoint to the exquisite sensation of the thick cock sliding past his prostate again and again and again and _oh fuck_ he can't hold his head up any longer, letting it fall back between his shoulders, eyes closed, bottom lip bitten white, trying valiantly to stifle the chest deep moans that are about to rip out of him. He asked for this today, asked to be fucked, but still, some last thread of control won't quite let him acknowledge the intensity of the pleasure.

And then Chris feels Phil relent, placing a hand on his chest, nails scoring lightly across the sweat-slick skin; teasing him with a knowing touch that travels the length of his torso, from sternum to navel, following the dark trail down until that strong, capable hand is curling around his shaft and Chris bucks into the touch.

“Come on, Chris, let it go…you know how good it’s going to feel, just let..." there's ever such a slight hitch in Phil's voice, and a graveled depth to the tone that Chris recognizes, even in his slightly altered state of consciousness, as Phil getting close. “…it…go....oh fuck Christopher…” And that does it, that last long exhale of his name, breathed like some obscene benediction and then Chris is groaning, a low deep sound that vibrates through both of them. Phil punches his hips one last time, even as he twists his hand around the slick length of Chris's cock, jerking fast and rough until Chris spasms and comes with a long low... "Oh Jesus _fuck_..." shuddering as he spills in a hot, viscous spatter across Phil's hand and belly. Chris is almost too far gone to even notice when, a bare heartbeat later, the tight clench of his flesh pulls Phil to follow him into that place of static and white noise and red sparks behind his eyes.

It’s a slow, very lazy recovery and Chris sprawls across the bed of the truck, his head on Phil’s chest, exhausted and breathless, judging the state of his partner’s recovery by the gradually steadying beat of his heart, waiting until it has slowed before breaking the comfortable silence with a quiet whisper.

“You were away too long; we're not doing that again, right?" It's more of a command than a question, and Chris isn’t really expecting an answer but he feels an indrawn breath and knows that Phil has just flinched at the open ache that threaded through his statement. Chris so rarely allows that kind of vulnerability to show, and perhaps this is going to be something they are eventually going to need to talk about. But not now - now it's enough that they are still wrapped together, sweat-damp and sated, the air around them warm and redolent with salt and sand and sex as the light fades from sand bright white and blue to the long shadowed violet and gold of a Pacific twilight.


End file.
